The Kitten Incident
by Hekateras
Summary: Many things begin with kittens. For a certain angel, it was further proof of a certain demon's "spark of goodness". For the aforementioned demon, it was one threat to his reputation too many.
1. Kittens

It started with a kitten.

Many things do, in fact. They rarely make the headlines, as it were, in lieu of certain reports to the proverbial higher-ups (or lower-downs, as the case may be) and are not usually something you'd receive a commendation for.* Nevertheless, you eventually tended to notice that a great many occurrences had a kitten or cat or some other member of the feline subfamily somewhere along their chain of causality.

And so this, as well, started with a kitten.

This particular kitten, a fluffy ginger, had launched itself across the road at a most inopportune moment, and would quickly have become a kitten-shaped splat if Crowley hadn't swerved dramatically, taking the car off the road and into an ornamental pond in the process. The demon shrieked a profanity. His passenger made an 'eep' sound.

As it turned out, the pond was just deep enough for the Bentley to become comfortably submerged in the wake of a melodious glunking and a set of bubbles.

Some wet and slippery scrambling and splashing around later, Crowley and Aziraphale stood at the edge of the little pool of water that now held the Bentley captive in its dank and slimy embrace. They were both covered in lemna.

Absentmindedly wiping his sunglasses on his wet suit, Crowley stared at the bubbles coming to the surface. He made a helpless, aborted movement towards them. Then he swore again at length.

Aziraphale fished a bit of pondweed out of his once-perfect hair and patted the demon on the shoulder. "There, there, dear," he said. "Just miracle it out and it will be good as new, you'll see."

"It bloody well won't," Crowley snapped. "I'll never get the smell completely out of it and it'll drive me _crazy_." He made a strangled sound. "Go- Manchester, the upholstery is _leather_, do you have _any_ idea-" He broke off and looked around wildly, peering back at the road where the kitten was no longer to be seen (having taken off, wisely, for safer pastures). "D'you think I hit it?" he asked hopefully, ignoring the admonishing tutting sound the angel made.

"Thanks to you swerving, it appears to have gotten safely away. In fact, I found it rather sweet how you-"

"Oh _bloody shut up_, will you, it was just a reflex-"

He heard giggling and whipped his head around at a teenage girl standing nearby, cameraphone out.

"What do _you_ think you're ssssstaring at?" he hissed, fixing the kid with the full force of his glare. She gulped and scurried away, having suddenly discovered a lengthy and painful dentist appointment she was late for. Aziraphale winced but did not object.**

"Bloody gawkers."

"My dear, in her defense, you do look rather... It's, ah... here, let me just..." the angel trailed off, reaching up to pick a water lily out of its nestling place in Crowley's hair and lower it carefully back into the water (after giving it a slight pat).

The demon glared balefully at the water lily, then sighed and shook himself, and suddenly he was dry again. He sniffed. "Can still smell it," he whined.

"My dear, we are still standing next to the pond, I would be surprised if it were otherwise," Aziraphale noted, drying himself in a similar fashion (though his method involved not so much threatening his tartan jacket into dryness as imploringly guilting it into it).

Crowley slumped and took out his phone***. He dialed the number of a random car company and arranged for his Bentley to be fished out and restored to top condition. He was assured, with no sarcasm involved, that there was quite literally nothing they would rather be doing, and of course he needn't bother paying. The hissing probably had something to do with that.

Aziraphale beamed, his spirits none the worse for the dunking they took. He took one look at the demon still staring disconsolately at the series of bubbles that marked his Bentley's watery grave and hooked an arm through Crowley's, gently pulling him away.

"Where are we going?"

"Do stop sulking, dear boy. I am going to get you drunk."

Just because you're an angel doesn't mean you have to be blind to the needs of the situation.

* * *

*Unless pharaohs are involved.

**Dental care was another one of those things both sides liked to take credit for.

*** It hadn't occurred to him that sensitive electronics could in any way be damaged by water, so naturally, it had very swiftly un-occurred to the phone as well. Plus, it was a Nokia.

* * *

"...Ssssee, wha'm tryinasssay issss... I. You're a. Whassisname. Feather thing. Owl. Nowait. Chicken. _Yeessssss. _Except you wouldn've arms 'cause chickens jus' have wings an' legs, but you 'ave armsss... Sssoo. Sssso you're like a chicken, except, you know. Arms'n'legsn'wingsss makessss ssssix. Whatchacallit when sssomethin'sss got ssssix legssss..."

"Inshect?"

"No, no, no... _Anyway_, ssso you're like a chicken, excssssept you're a ssssix-legged chicken, sseeee?"

Aziraphale was at that unique stage of drunkenness when the only way he could react was to give this due consideration and nod solemnly.

"Mmm-hum. Yesh, dear, I, er. I shee wha you mean."

"An' the besssss part issss, y'know wha tha makesss that uptight one you report to? Gabriel?"

"...Mishelle, I shink? No, no. Mishael."

"Michael. Thassright. Ssso. That makesss 'im... wait for it... an _arch_chicken."

He sat back, satisfied.

He watched Aziraphale's face transform as the angel considered the mental image.

"Witha flamin' ssswoooord," Crowley added helpfully.

Aziraphale exploded in a burst of giggles that turned to snorts which in turn ended in undignified roaring chortling shortly before he knocked over a bottle and drenched himself in absinthe, which amused Crowley to no end.

Five minutes later, when they finally stopped gasping for breath (after remembering that they didn't need to breathe), Aziraphale gave a giddy sigh and Crowley wiped away tears. He gestured at his frie-… adversa-… associate with a wine bottle. (Neither of them even noticed when more wine sloshed out, drenching Aziraphale even further.)

"Your turn, angel." He lifted the wine bottle to his lips and took a swig. Some of the wine even landed in his mouth. It was too scared not to.

"...You're a shnake."

"Hah, noooooo. Too easy. Try again, angel."

"...A cat?"

Crowley stared suspiciously at him in a manner that was not at all cat-like.

"Whatabloodyloadofrubbish," he hissed.

On second thought, perhaps the less said of the drinking, the better.

* * *

In retrospect, Crowley would regard it as The Kitten Incident Number One*, but back then it had been nothing of the sort – after all, it _had _been a reflex, and the Bentley _di__d _pay the price for it, which meant that there were more important things to worry about and it was put out of mind quite quickly.

Unfortunately, it was only months before the concept of kittens reared its ugly head again.

Crowley was sleeping. He adored sleeping almost as much as he adored his car (and had once decided to claim the best of both worlds and curled up comfortably on top of the sun-lit roof of the Bentley, until revived by a policeman who immediately regretted it), or having a good drink in good company**, or the idea of sunglasses. And so one afternoon he was cocooned happily in his sheets (red satin, for the record) and enjoying that moment of drowsiness between one nap session and the next.

He was startled awake by a very recognisable yowling.

He stiffened, then hissed to himself and burrowed deeper into his nest, stuffing his head under a pillow. Unfortunately, this did not erase the yowling, wherever it was coming from. The sound was not unlike the things you heard in the deepest bowels of Hell – for which, unlike most people, Crowley had a direct basis for comparison.

He might have succeeded in ignoring it and going back to sleep, even if the interruption did spoil it a bit, if he hadn't started thinking of what would happen if he did just that. Not the cat, no – he thought about how all the other people in the building could surely hear that blasted animal as well, and how soon there would be loud voices and yelling and excitement and maybe even the fire department come to visit.***

That would be even worse.

Crowley spent a moment inventing a dozen new profanities in his head, then sighed and slithered out of bed. He pulled himself upright in another sinuous motion and staggered blearily to his balcony, not bothering to change out of his outrageously opulent burgundy silk pajamas.

And that was how Crowley found himself climbing up from his top-floor flat to the roof as the yowling grew in intensity and volume. He could already hear voices inquiring about what the source of all the bloody noise was and if someone wouldn't let the blasted cat in already.

The roof was quite pleasantly hot under the afternoon sun and he made a mental note to try napping there later.

The incessant noise was coming from one of the chimneys, where the trapped cat promised to die a slow, painful and loud death if it were not rescued eventually.

Which Crowley did not think about as he approached the chimney, poked his head in, and then (his human body being optional, after all) slithered in.

Crowley snaked his way down into the dark towards the steady ruckus of vibrations**** that was the now increasingly terrified cat. He briefly imagined how embarrassing it would be to fall in and get stuck as well, and so coiled the rest of his meters-long body all the more tightly around the outside of the chimney.

Ignoring the faint pressure of claws scrabbling viciously at his scales, he coiled a few loops around the frantic cat and pulled himself back up.

He changed again (mercifully, remembering to manifest his pajamas) and stared at the scruffy-looking feline held in his arms. It stared back, salad-green eyes full of mistrust.

A moment passed.

Then the cat hissed and lashed out at him in a whirlwind of claws.

Crowley cursed and shifted his grip. It continued to claw at the air furiously.

"You know, I ought to just drop you off the rooftop this instant," Crowley said, and stepped towards the edge. "Find out if it's true what they say about you and landing on your feet and all that."

The cat yowled, loudly.

Crowley sighed.

Five minutes later, he was walking out of his flat, face and arms tingling with that feeling of freshly healed scratches, holding the huge (and quite frankly, overfed, which he didn't neglect to mention to it) tabby by the scruff of its neck at arm's length. The cat's yowling had subsided to a constant, thrumming hiss.

As he walked out onto the landing, he nearly collided with a little old lady who he vaguely recalled lived downstairs (though whether that would still be true by the time he finished his nap was another matter). The little old lady frowned up at him with a righteous fury reminiscent of Aziraphale at his most unbearable, shaking her tiny shriveled fists.

"Why, you… Just what were you doing with that cat, young man?"

Crowley gaped for a moment, feeling oddly affronted. While he generally had no qualms about taking credit for evil-doings he was not actually responsible for (his career would be in a sorry state otherwise), there was something undignified about this particular accusation. He was the Serpent of Eden, instigator of the Original Sin, master of temptation and door-to-door salesman from the time before doors even existed. He was Hell's oldest agent on Earth. He had worse things to do than torment a little dumb animal that was likely already scheduled for Damnation, anyway.*****

"'Twas stuck in the chimney," he gestured with the cat, voice full of wounded pride.

The old lady's expression immediately transformed. "Oh! Oh, I see, oh, I'm so sorry, but the people you get these days, horrible isn't it, it's just that I heard all that wailing and wasn't sure where it was coming from, I don't suppose you have any cat food do you no that's quite alright don't trouble yourself dear…"

Crowley stood there, cat still held in an outstretched hand, not sure how to proceed. He'd wanted to dispose of the animal in some quiet and horrible way and thus exact his revenge for the murder of his sleep. He also wanted to get back to the aforementioned sleep.

Which was why when, in the midst of slightly senile chattering, the lady said something like "Oh look, the poor thing has a collar attached, we should call the owner, oh, but you look busy, would you like me to take him off your hands", Crowley nodded vaguely, deposited the vicious little bundle of fur into the old lady's arms, turned on his heel and slunk back into his apartment.

Soon he was worming his way back into his cozy, no longer warm nest of sheets, the incident moments away from being forgotten.

Had he known in advance that karma would come back to bite him in the proverbial behind, he would at least have changed into a snake and given it something to think about.

* * *

* If he were more pedantic or honest with himself, he would realise that this was not, in fact, true. The _real_ Kitten Incident Number One took place quite a bit earlier and actually did involve pharaohs. Aziraphale had once asked something like "Say, my dear, where were you back then, when I was dodging locust swarms and making sure all the right doorways were smeared with lamb's blood (a terrible business, yes, but better than the alternative, all things considered)?", Crowley had shuffled his feet and mumbled something about oversleeping. This was actually code for "I heard yowling and it turns out a cat and its kittens got locked in a catacomb during all the confusion and, um, well, so there" – a truth Aziraphale, to his endless relief, had never managed to fish out of him in all the millennia of getting drunk together that followed.

** If he were more pedantic or honest with himself, he would have phrased that thought differently and admitted that-… screw it, this isn't that kind of story. Sorry about that.

*** It was true – Crowley actually had seen the fire department come driving just to rescue a little white kitten stuck high in a tree. He remembered it because he'd gloated to Aziraphale about it later ("Look at those hypocrites, angel, all that effort just to feel good about themselves while they happily let people starve right under their noses"), and despite his best efforts, the blasted angel had kept smiling for a solid week.

**** Being a demon meant he had better hearing and eyesight than regular snakes, but it still felt that much more intuitive to rely on good old tongue-tasting and vibrations when in that form. He'd found that the strategy tended to be a good one in all sorts of situations.

***** Crowley recognised a kindred spirit in cats the same way two Metallica fans can find each other across a crowded, loud, pitch-black room.

* * *

"...And that is how she ended up calling a police officer," Aziraphale finished, his distress evident in the way he kept crumpling and re-smoothing his napkin.

"Right," Crowley said, hands clasped tensely in front of his mouth. "And, uh. What happened then?"

"Well, I had to, you know, take measures," Aziraphale gestured vaguely with a hint of embarrassment. Crowley made a choked sound. The angel frowned at him. "Are you finding this amusing?"

Crowley unclasped his hands and took a deep breath, face impassive. Then his mouth twisted and he broke out in giggles. "No," he managed. He made the mistake of looking at Aziraphale's expression and promptly doubled over, roaring. "Honestly, no," he gasped.

"I don't think it's amusing," Aziraphale said tartly.

"My deepest condolences," Crowley grinned, sharp and flash. "Look, angel, even you've got to admit: scaring a customer so badly she calls the fuzz? _Comedy gold_."

"I'm not supposed to scare people, Crowley. I'm supposed to be a soothing presence, a beacon of hope-"

"And I'm supposed to tempt people to sin and inspire destruction and calamity, but guess what? I balance that with wanting to enjoy the good things in life," he gestured at the posh interior of the Ritz, the expensive tablecloth and the vanquished remains of the chocolate soufflé, "which wouldn't really be an option if I just kept inciting envy and lust and hatred and all that other rubbish in everyone. A lot of sin here, but you can't create things like this without a little virtue thrown in as well. 'S like cooking." He grinned again.

Aziraphale glanced down at the desert plates and looked back at him levelly. "...It _is_ cooking."

"Good, you're with me then. And like cooking, you can't have your quaint little bookshop and glare righteous death at people who come in to buy something and not expect to come off as a bit of a creep once in a while. It's life."

Aziraphale looked unconvinced. "Sometimes I wonder if you aren't changing me," he said, then blinked in surprise at himself. They didn't usually talk about that.

Crowley was silent for a moment. He reached up and removed his sunglasses. His elbows on the table, he leaned forward and gave the angel a tight smile.

"Probably," he said. "But then again, I sure as heaven wasn't the one to start you on your little obsession. As I recall, you were getting all high-pitched and excited back when they first started scribbling on walls, so I don't know. Maybe it's me. Maybe it's just you. Or maybe it's them." He jerked his head at the other tables, full of gestures and conversations. "Now, the way I see it, I'm not saying you shouldn't worry about it, 'cause it sort of comes with the territory, I guess, but you could do worse than learn to laugh about it a bit. You can take something seriously and still laugh about it, you know. Okay? Does that sound okay?" He swallowed. Aziraphale's hands had gone very still on the napkin.

Then, the angel smiled beatifically.*

"Crowley..." he began tentatively, brow furrowing., as he reached out to pat the demon's hand**. "You really needn't worry, dear boy..."

Crowley leaned back, hastily putting his sunglasses back on. "Worry about what?" he asked, trying to sound blasé.

"About the Arrangement," Aziraphale said gently. "I certainly didn't mean to suggest anything. As far as I'm concerned, it's been a crashing success."

"Smashing," Crowley corrected without thinking.

"Of course. As I was saying, I think it's been beneficial for both of us. There have been very few times when I've had cause to question it at all, and this is hardly one of them."

"Didn't think so," Crowley sniffed, then nodded eagerly. "I mean, what would you ever do without me, right? Years upon years, and nobody to complain about your customers to? You'd explode."

"Indeed."

"...Okay then. So that's okay."

Aziraphale nodded cheerfully – it was amazing how easy he was to cheer up, really. He picked up a wine menu and tsked. "I think we should head back home for drinks, don't you, my dear?"***

Crowley smiled. "Your place or mine?"****

* * *

* That is, with approximately 150% more celestial grace than his regular smile, including an actual slight glow.

** FYI, this still isn't that kind of story.

*** It wasn't that the Ritz didn't have an adequate wine selection, because it did, but rather that humans tended to react oddly as soon as glasses started refilling spontaneously as things got out of control.

**** Feel free to squint and tilt your head backwards and pretend that this _is _that kind of story, right about here.

* * *

Crowley was not a great believer in karma. This was largely due to him knowing for a fact that he was rather high up on the Creator's list of _least_ favourite creatures, which made believing in karma about as reasonable as "believing" in gravity or the colour blue. Even so, after six thousand years of evading vague cosmic justice, you learned not to worry about karma too much in the immediate present. Until something like this happened, that is.

What happened was a ghost of Crowley's (admittedly recent) past come to haunt him.

He had agreed wholeheartedly that the Ritz was a lousy place to get properly, ravingly drunk in, driven back home, and had just stepped out of the elevator (out of order, not that either of them had noticed) when he nearly collided (again) with a little old lady. _The_ little old lady, upon further inspection, who had procured a similarly arthritis-ridden comrade in arms* and had just been teetering down the hall when Crowley happened upon her. Even as she blinked up at him nearsightedly, Crowley neatly sashayed around her and was halfway to the door of his flat when she did a little jump and high-pitched yelp of recognition.

"Oh, look, Lily, it's that nice young man I told you about who rescued the cat what was trapped in the chimney! It's so nice to see kind people nowadays, people certainly aren't what they used to be, wouldn't you say..."

Crowley froze, suddenly very aware of the angelic presence prickling at the back of his neck. In a single, crystal-clear moment, he felt six thousand years of reputation crumbling to dust.**

All thoughts of exacting unholy vengeance upon the little old lady dissipated as he turned back to look, a sinking feeling in his stomach as he saw his companion. Aziraphale was looking at him. He could practically hear the cogs turning in the angel's head, face lighting up as he connected the dots into what deceptively resembled a damning pattern.

Crowley spread his hands helplessly. "It really, _really_ isn't what it looks like."

"Of course not, dear," the angel said indulgently.

Azirapahle smiled at him in that infuriatingly knowing way of his, and Crowley knew that all hope was lost.

* * *

* Never forget that little old ladies hunt in packs, and woe befall anyone's lost grandchild that falls into their stifingly nurturing clutches. Crowley still wasn't sure what mechanism of nature produced such scores of frail yet oddly resilient, identical-looking, knitwear-clad little old ladies, but suspected mitosis was involved.

** Unbeknownst to him, another piece of his reputation disintegrated at that moment, namely the one concerning his relationship status. Since the local gang of little old ladies numbered, between them, a grand total of three dozen young, single, female relatives, he'd rather dodged a bullet with that one.

* * *

Two hours later, Crowley summoned another 1789' Montpeillier and filled Aziraphale's glass to the brim.

"An' she says.. she sats... this here's degera.. degene... degenetey..."

"Degenerate?" Crowley said helpfully, steadying the angel's hand as his glass threatened to slosh over.

"Yes gerenate, er. I mean. Yes, that. So she says, this here's deregenate art, we're shupposhed to burn them, and then I just..." Aziraphale hiccuped, giggled hysterically, and gestured wildly with his wine glass to demonstrate unspecified _measures_. Crowley reached over to steady his hand again and poured more wine. "So then I jus'... I was ov'r my quota already, shee, of miracles, tryin' to shave all those_ people_, so I couldn' jus'..." He waved his hand again.

"So what?" Crowley said. "You went all Sssophie's Choice on 'em and sssmuggled a couple out in your big tartan overcoat?"

The soggy silence indicated that that was exactly what he'd done.

"I got dishcoropate... discorpr-... killed that day," Aziraphale said. Crowley winced in sympathy. "They weren't very pleashed with me about that, esgpecially what with everythin' else goin' on. I wash out of the loop for a while. I wish I hadn't tried it, you know? Shet my priorities shtraight. It'sh just... all thoshe _booksh_..."

"Lousy decade," Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale sobbed suddenly. Crowley reached out to pat his shoulder, a gesture that should've been awkward but somehow wasn't.

"There, there," he said mechanically and poured the angel more wine.

Aziraphale peered into his wine glass suspiciously. He looked up at Crowley. "I'm drunk," he announced.

Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale squinted at him. "I'm a lot more drunker'n you are," he added with a hint of hurt feelings.

Crowley's strategy had been to get the angel drunk into oblivion, quite literally, so that it would never occur to him to think of Crowley and cats in the same sentence ever again. He gulped and shrugged uneasily.

"Just thought I'd ssstay a bit more sssober for a change, angel," he said cagily. "Sssoo anyway... Don't beat yoursself up over it. We've all done things we regret. And sssso on."

Aziraphale looked at him in silence, then at the pile of empty wine bottles (significantly more of them on his side than Crowley's), his brain appearing to go through a series of complicated and slow mathematical exercises, then back at Crowley. Suddenly he laughed.

"What is it?" Crowley asked uneasily.

"You're tryina get me drunk," the angel giggled.

"...Okay, sssooo..."

"You're tryina get me drunk sho I forget about _the_ _cat_," the angel jabbed a triumphant finger at him (and managed a rough approximation of his general direction), eyes sparkling with more mental alacrity than was entirely fair for someone that inebriated.

Crowley froze. He decided that karma really wasn't on his side today.

"No I'm not," he protested weakly.

"You _sho_ are! You're embarshed of all the catsh you've been shaving, you wily shnake with a shpark of goodnesh, you!"

"No I'm not!" Crowley repeated, then decided that a change of tactics was in order. "It's nothing to be embarassssed about, anyway."

"Really?" the angel blinked at him in curiosity.

"_Really_, angel. Jussst doing the devil'sss work here, understand? No?" he saw the angel shake his head. "Fine! I'll explain it to you. They're evil creatures. _Evil_. Viciousss, bloodthirsssty monsters. Ever ssseen a cat play with itsss food, angel? There'ssss nothing good about them, trussst me."

Aziraphale leaned forward. "Shmall. Furry. Animals," he said slowly, punctuating each word with a tap on the table.

"You of all people should know appearances can be deceiving, angel*."

"Me of... all people?"

"You hang out with me, right? Sssnake, remember?"

Aziraphale cocked his head. "Shnakes aren't evil."

Crowley looked at him in silence for a moment. He swallowed.

"Cats are," he insisted.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows.

Suddenly Crowley grinned. "Actually," he said, "you're probably right. The Lord's creatures, and all that. Ineffable. Yeah. You know what, you win, angel."

The angel in question looked confused, but nodded sluggishly. "I'm glad that'sh shettled, then," he said as haughtily as he could manage. "I don't know what you're up to, you wicked sherpent, but you're fallin' behind." He gestured at the wine bottles.

Crowley nodded eagerly. "I've got a bottle of Ssscotch sssomewhere," he lied and stumbled up, pretending to rummage in his minibar. While the angel was distracted, he produced a post-it and a shiny ballpoint pen and scribbled as legibly as he could manage under the circumstances. Just in case. Flashes of genius were not meant to be lost to drunken oblivion, after all.

He stuffed it into the pocket of his suit, hung it up carefully and returned to the couch, where the coffee table's collection of bottles was beginning to resemble a small, very shiny army.

He drank and joked and teased and tempted and wiled, even as his mastermind plan pieced itself together in the back of his mind.

The angel smiled.

The demon smiled.

But for rather different reasons.

On the post-it note, two words were written in a spiky, unsteady handwriting:

_Cat. Christmas._

After all, a demon never surrenders without a fight.

_To be continued..._

* * *

* Unfortunately, Crowley had missed the particular showing of Discovery Channel that divulged how a cat's hissing face, with its narrow pupils, sharp fangs, triangular snarl and round head with flattened ears, was actually meant to emulate a snake's, otherwise he could have made an even better point for the whole "cats are horrible vicious creatures" thing.


	2. Bells

It began with a tinkle.

Many things do, broadly speaking, in the sense of being heralded by some foreboding omen or harbinger of fate. Whether it is the sound of trumpets commanding the first march to war, or a levitating stranger with technicolour wings come to tell you awkwardly about that metaphysical one-night-stand you didn't know you'd had, it was strange how great happenings tended to bring their own thunder before the lightning – and unlike more invisible instigators of doom, they almost always went down in the history books.

And so this, as well, began with a tinkle.

This particular tinkle chimed inoffensively from the little brass bell hung against the door and served as a very reliable sign of potentially great annoyances in the uncomfortably close future. If the little brass bell were sentient enough to understand how the sound of it ringing had come to be loathed, and had tear ducts, it would weep.

Aziraphale looked up from his book.*

"Nice place you got here," the man in the doorway said appreciatively, leaning languidly against the door, which creaked in protest. He was wearing a suit and sunglasses. He was distinctly not Crowley.

"Thank you, my dear chap," Aziraphale said. He carefully tucked the book into his desk drawer. ** He rose from the chair, smoothed out the wrinkles in his jumper and crossed the room to stand in front of the intruder, who, annoyingly enough, turned out to tower a foot above him. "Anything I can help you with?" Aziraphale asked levelly, seeking out the eyes behind the sunglasses with the penetrating look of someone with years of practice.

"Er." The shady gentleman looked down at him, as unnerved as people usually are when faced with the unsmiling face of someone who very obviously ought to be smiling and is quite good at it. Then he leered and leaned against the door even more aggressively. "Like I said, nice place. Very... what do you call it. Authentic. Yes. An authentic, antique book shop straight out of the good old days***, very nice. Shame if-"

"If anything were to happen to it?" Aziraphale asked innocently.

"Um. Lots of-"

"Fire hazards, yes, you're quite right, I'm afraid."

The man stared.

Then he bristled. "Look. It's just a matter of protocol, alright? You can't just charge in and make demands like some crass B-list film villain. You gotta try to have style."

"I assure you I'm quite familiar with style, good sir. Perhaps you should reach for some lower-hanging fruit, so to speak."

"Wha-? Okay, seeing as you obviously know the drill, I'm going to make this very clear to you-"

"I think you should leave," Aziraphale interrupted, very gently.

The man smirked. "Or else what? You'll call the cops?"

The angel looked puzzled. "Whatever for?"

Without meaning to, the man took a small step back. He was uncomfortable the way actors are when they realise that the script they've spent the night memorising has been changed and they'd missed the memo. He vaguely felt that his target was standing a bit too close, especially for someone who should be shaking in their boots. A deeper, animal part of him was also coming to realise Aziraphale had not broken gazes with him, blinked or breathed with any consistency**** since the conversation had started.

Surreptitiously, he felt for the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

It wasn't there.

He gulped.

"Y-you'll regret this," he promised, uncertain as he was about the nature of "this". A little crab-like dance took him to the doorway without turning his back on the bookseller, then he spun and all but ran out.

"Don't let the door hit you on the way out, dear," Aziraphale called after him, just as the door swung out, clipping the retreating man on his backside.***** He cursed, rubbed the sore spot and increased his pace, soon disappearing into a sleek black car with shaded windows. It hurriedly took off and vanished behind the corner.

"Don't miss your appointment with the dentist, either," Aziraphale said to himself and stepped away from the window. He immediately felt guilty, but decided to ignore the feeling.

"The nerve of some people these days," he huffed quietly, settling back into his comfortable chair and retrieving his book. He threw a last quick glance at the door (and a much sterner one at the doorbell), then carefully parted the pristine pages to a neat bookmark.******

The bell stayed quiet for a while.

* * *

* Technically a tautology. For the sake of accuracy and style, feel free to mentally tack on "while looking up from his book" to any future sentence involving Aziraphale.

** While looking up from his book, remember.

*** Which are exactly like the bad new days, only with gas lamps, which emit a much more nostalgic sort of light.

**** Never forget that speaking requires inhaling first. It is a mistake all ethereal beings make at one point or another and the results are invariably hilarious.

***** All the more impressive, since it only opens inward.

****** A postcard from Manchester, courtesy of Crowley, 1963-ish.

* * *

The next time the bell rang was a little over three hours later. This time, the tinkle had a slightly apologetic tone to it.

It was followed by the laughter of children, which brings instant joy and happiness to anyone who hears it only on the most theoretical level. A boy and a girl, both grade school-aged, hurried inside.

Aziraphale looked in alarm to where the pitter-patter of tiny feet and shrill voices had disappeared among his bookshelves.

Someone cleared his throat.

He turned to the harried-looking father, who was surveying the bookshop the same way an elephant handler might look at delicate china.*

"How may I help you?" Aziraphale asked.

"Uh, well, you see, the kids have gone and eaten through the entire collection at home, they're a nightmare to keep occupied – well, you know, _kids_ – and then we were driving past and saw your shop. So if you could...? Doesn't even have to be child-level, really, they like dinosaurs, so maybe one of those fancy educational books – I can pay, I've got the money..."

Aziraphale was beginning to turn slightly green from the sound of excited shouts and scuffling somewhere in the shop and the implications of the man _having money_ when the girl reappeared. "Ask him if he's got the new Harry Potter book, daddy!" With that, she vanished into the bookshelves again.

The father lifted his tired gaze to him again. "Uh, yes. If you've got..."

"Wait here, please," Aziraphale sighed** and headed into the side room with his private collection. "Look, Andy, this one's got pictures of weird people!"*** he heard echo from the bowels of the tortured bookshop as he left the room.

He made his way to the glass-protected shelves that had previously held some glorious old Bibles, which Adam's sense of humour had replaced with a compilation of children's books, including, oddly enough, the complete works of J.K. Rowling.

Aziraphale paused in front of the bookshelves. Then he peeked back into where his customer was waiting. "Which one's that, dear chap?"

The father looked up, startled. "What?"

"The newest Harry Potter book. Which one's that?"

"It's called ORDER – OF – THE – PHOEEENIX" a shrill voice proclaimed from somewhere below. Aziraphale looked down at the girl waiting impatiently with her arms crossed and nodded.

He selected a book from somewhere along the middle of the row and held it gently. It had a colourful dust jacket, a flawless kerning and line spacing and some pencil-drawn illustrations. The inside of it bore the author's signature in slightly smudged ballpoint pen. It was the kind of book that would always be considered a treasure, regardless of how long ago it had been published. ****

"Um... Hello?"

Aziraphale sighed and slowly walked back, cradling the book in his arms. "Yes?" he asked patiently.

"Do you..." the man's eyes fell on the book while the children let out high-pitched squeals. "Ah good, you've got it," he said with audible relief." Aziraphale nodded numbly. "How much do you want for it, then?"

Aziraphale walked to the old-fashioned cashier on wooden legs. He named a price that would have seemed outrageous even to someone who knew the book's unique history, but the man didn't bat an eye. He produced a heapload of cash and laid it on the table, counting it in front of him.

"Well?" he said.

Aziraphale stirred. The father was looking at him in expectancy, the children bouncing on their heels on either side of him. Aziraphale looked down at the book still cradled in his arms. He looked back at the customer.

A moment passed, then another.

Finally Aziraphale nodded weakly and reached for the brown wrapping paper. Though no-one had asked him to, he gift-wrapped the book snug as a bug, placed several loops of twine around it and finished off with a bow.

Somewhere below, the children were beginning to scowl and fidget impatiently.

He looked up again and finally, slowly, handed the book over.

The father sagged with relief. "Thank you, thank you," he said, then began to usher the children out of the shop.

At the door, the girl turned around and said loudly, "You shouldn't take drugs, they're bad for you."

Aziraphale blinked.

"My mommy says drugs make you dumb and slow and lazy. So you shouldn't take drugs."

"That's enough, Alice," the man said firmly, glancing up at Aziraphale with a nervous, uncomfortable smile, and herded her out the door.

The bell chimed again, and they were gone.

Aziraphale sagged back into his chair. He numbly lifted a handkerchief and dabbed at his face, then felt around his desk until he found a cup of tea gone cold, and gingerly took a sip.

Some time later, he rose and headed to rearrange the books where the children's rampage had disturbed them.

Aziraphale thought of the precious book, separated from its comrades, all alone out there, what little protection he'd managed to give it likely being torn to shreds at this very moment.

He shuddered.

He briefly considered making his shop off-limits to children again, but knew it wouldn't do any good.*****

* * *

* The most distinguishing feature was this perpetual wince of premonition etched onto his face.

** The girl had discovered the 1875 ink-illustrated edition of _The Complete Works of Sir William Shakespeare._ Fortunately for her and Aziraphale, she managed to replace it as if it had never been disturbed, and the angel never learned how close he had come to Falling that day.  
*** Aziraphale approved of people reading and loving books the same way Hell approved of disobedience – it's all well and jolly, yes, excellent work on that, chap, but take that somewhere else, if you would be so kind.  
**** Or, in this case, regardless of in how many years this particular edition of it was _due _to be published. The series had such gravity and mass as iconic children's literature that it strained against the constrains of time and space, and Adam had barely needed to lift a finger to get it to appear in the angel's new collection years before the author took that fateful train trip.  
***** For some reason, the 'Adults Only' label had kept attracting some very strange people with some very strange requests until he'd been forced to take it down again. Even worse, Crowley had been entirely unhelpful.

* * *

_...And through the hail of fire did the great stone doors open as the gong rang thrice, and there emerged a servant of Bastet with his cat eyes gleaming gold, and in his arms he held seven children of the Lady of Flame, and the claws of the mother drew blood as she sat upon his shoulders, and he hissed at us as a child of the Lady would, chastising us for our neglect of her kin. Thereupon he thrust them into our arms and vanished like smoke as the great holy rain began to fall. And we knew then that a sacred duty lay on our shoulders, that we would take the children of Bastet to her temple in the city of Boubastis and leave them in the care of the priestesses-*_

The bell clinked, doing its best to sound inconspicuous. At this point, it didn't need sentience to start feeling a little guilty.

Aziraphale set down his pen and looked up in apprehension as a lanky teenager shuffled in, peering around cautiously. With the gangly, awkward-limbed build unique to extremely bookish, socially awkward youths, and wide-rimmed glasses perched on a pasty, freckled nose, he looked much as if a cartoonist had seen a caricature of a bookworm and then drawn a caricature of it.

"Hi," the boy said, waving nervously. "Ummm... I just thought I'd look around, never been in this part of town before. Um."

"Feel free, my dear," Aziraphale said dryly, picking up his pen again. He glanced up every now and then as the boy wandered through the bookshelves, fingers trailing almost reverently along the aged spines. "Wonderful collection," the boy said quietly, looking up and down at the titles.

"...Thank you," the angel said, a little more softly. "...Are you looking for something in particular?"

"Not really, I mostly just like looking around." The boy paused, then said, "What's this then?"

Aziraphale looked up to see the boy pointing to a small sign, one of the many hung on the side of every bookshelf.

"Oh, those are there for navigation and cataloguing purposes." In theory, anyway.

"Yeah, I mean, I figured that much, but what language is it in?" the boy asked impatiently, peering at the strange symbols.

"Akkadian."

"Ooh, like in Ancient Babylon? Really?" The boy looked at the sign again, in amazement. "Neat. How'd people find what they're looking for, then?"

"I know where everything is," Aziraphale said quietly. He could also read, write and speak Akkadian and even though very few other people could, he'd still indulged his paranoid side and deliberately mislabelled the shelves just in case.

"Do you? Golly, that's pretty amazing."

Aziraphale hummed noncommittally and returned to the book before him, pen poised in his hand.

"What's this, then?" Suddenly the boy was peering over his shoulder, gesturing to the open book and the stack of notes beside it. "It looks Egyptian. Can you read Egyptian? Wow, are you translating that?"

Aziraphale cleared his throat, relieved when the boy backed away. "Sorry, I was just curious, is all... Mom says I've no understanding of personal boundaries."

"Isn't there someplace you ought to be, my dear?" Aziraphale asked pointedly. Just as the kid was about to answer, the bell rang again, in distress, and the door slammed open.

"Oh dear..." the angel muttered, standing up.

Three boys swaggered in. One was wearing a leather jacket, another a baseball cap, and all three looked like they probably played rugby. "We've found you now, Jimmy," the tallest one smirked. "Didn't think you could hide from us in some dusty old bookshop, didcha? We know your habits, ya little bastard."

Aziraphale sighed.

They strode in, circling the ganglier boy as he backed away nervously.

"What you gonna do now, Jimbo-Dumbo, eh?"

The boy raised his hands. "Look, guys, we don't have to do it this way..."

"We sure as hell_ do_."

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

"Stay _out_ of this, old man, and don't even think about going near the phone. And _you_, you're gonna regret what you said to me today, you stinkin' bastard." With that, he grabbed the kid and shoved him hard against a bookshelf.

The shelves rattled.

On the top shelf, a fragile old book was jarred towards the edge by the impact, and, after balancing precariously for a moment, hit the floor with a deafening thud. Several thin pages that had been loose fluttered down around it like feathers in the wake of beating wings.

Aziraphale stared at the book.

The others stared at him. Even with their psychic sensitivity of a gnat** , they could feel the change in the air, the way their hairs suddenly stood on end, the prickle in their noses, the unexpected tension in their limbs, coiled to fight or flee. Then, very slowly, he turned his head, and each of them looked back into ageless grey-blue eyes and saw, with razor-sharp clarity, their fates being decided and their souls laid out on a platter for a certain amount of weighing and measuring. ***

"Your mother would be disappointed with you,"**** Aziraphale spoke in a voice like the echo of lightning striking ice, and they cowered and fled as one.

The bookish boy lingered, wide-eyed. "Wow," he breathed, "that was so cool." Aziraphale turned to look at him, silently, his expression unchanging. "Umm... yeah, I'll just... I'll just go then." With that, he scurried out the door.*****

Aziraphale walked slowly over to the scene of the crime and knelt down. It was a fifty-year-old textbook on organic chemistry that had, by the looks of it, frustrated dozens of students before it had been discarded in favour of a more up-to-date edition. Aziraphale sighed and began to gather the loose pages.

The bell chimed.

"Oh, _for Heaven's sake_!" Aziraphale shot to his feet, turning the full force of his righteous glare onto the newest intruder.

Crowley froze, one hand still on the door, then shrunk back a little. Aziraphale stared at him, then sighed, all but crumpling back to the floor to collect the rest of the pages.

"Whoa," Crowley said, cautiously slinking closer. He glanced at the book, winced. "Bad day, huh?"

"Just help me gather these, please," the angel said tartly. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"What, I need a letter of invitation to drop by now?" Crowley said, but mildly enough, since he correctly interpreted the complaint as "Why weren't you here sooner?"

He fished a page out from under a bookshelf and handed it to Aziraphale, who nodded in thanks. The angel carefully carried the book and its loose pages to his desk, where he put on thin white cotton gloves and began to dust them off with a dry rag.

Crowley leaned onto the desk with a sly smile. "So what, you're scaring kids now? Might wanna watch yourself, angel, never know when you'll land on Britain's Most Wanted-"

"Not now, Crowley."

Crowley raised his eyebrows. "Alright then. Fine. So, um. Whaddya say we ditch this place and go somewhere less dusty?"

Aziraphale didn't respond as he carefully smoothed out the pages, tutting as he studied the deteriorating binding.

Crowley leaned closer. "The ducks, then," he lowered his voice. "How about that? We'll just go and feed the ducks. Always cheers you up, and some fresh air would do you good."

Aziraphale hesitated. "...I really shouldn't. I'm not supposed to close shop for another three hours at least," he said in a sort of pleading tone, looking up at Crowley mournfully.

The demon grinned, white teeth glinting in the light. "Well, then, we'll just take it down as me tempting you into dereliction of duty, shall we?" He leaned close. "Come on. It'll be fuuuuuun."

Aziraphale twitched a smile at him, but it faded when he glanced at the damaged book again. "I really do need to stay here and fix this though, my dear. I can't just leave it like this." He frowned down at it thoughtfully. "Maybe retrace some of the ink, as well..."

Crowley rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers, and suddenly the book was reasonably whole again, though not without a few respectable-looking wears that made it look so endearingly authentic. He looked down at Aziraphale, who was frowning. "What?"

"I wish you wouldn't do that. It is _my _book, my dear. And it's just not proper to do it that way, it's not the same."

"Well, I can change it back-"

"_No_."

"There you have it, then," the demon grinned. "Come on, the ducks await us," he said, hauling the angel bodily out of the chair and dragging him to the door.

"You can be disgustingly manipulative at times, dear," Aziraphale noted as the door closed behind them with a grateful tinkle.

"Thanksss. Coming, angel?"

Aziraphale flipped the "Closed" sign, locked the door and turned to see Crowley leaning against the Bentley. The demon retrieved two paper bags from the backseat and waved with them.

Aziraphale smiled, just a little.

* * *

* Bastet, alias Lady of Flame, alias Eye of Ra, was a cat-headed feline goddess in Ancient Egypt and was equated by some with Artemis, Greek goddess of the hunt. Though the last few millennia had been dangerously quiet and the time of blood sacrifices and wine orgies long gone, the recent emergence of the internet and the communities of what people call "furries" had been quite enough to keep her happily sustained.  
** To be fair, gnats are actually quite distinguished psychics. When you're that puny and insignificant and could be wiped out by some bad weather at any moment, you take all the senses you can get. 'A ghost of gnats', the expression used to describe a male mating swarm, has more literal roots than one would expect.  
*** One of the perks of being an ethereal creature is that you can stand in a crowd, whip out the penetrating glare, and each and every person there will see you looking right into their souls, all at the same time.  
**** A virtually infallible line of psychological warfare in every situation, without exception.  
***** The next thing he said was something like "Guys, guys, wait up!", after which the four of them went to the park, fed the ducks, confided in each other about their issues, and each went to bed a better person that night.

* * *

"...And that's when they left."

"_I'll_say, I saw 'em run out. Should've seen their faces, you'd think someone'd stuffed fresh-cut onions into their nostrils. Nicely done, though. Straight to the gut. What's next, playing on daddy issues?"

"All I did was appeal to their consciences and urge them to think about their actions," Aziraphale huffed.

"Yeah, right. You know who else does that? We call 'em crossroads demons. They're the guys you sell your soul to. As in actually _sell_, anything you wish for, full package with guarantees à la Faust, that kind of thing. Maybe I should introduce you so you can swap tips."

"That is ridiculous, my dear. Guilt has always been a primary weapon in Good's arsenal."

"Not anymore."

"Since when, pray tell?"

"Since we _copyrighted_ it," Crowley said smugly. In the ensuing indignant silence, he tossed a scrap of bread to a large duck, who nibbled at it, then fixed him with the long, withering look of insulted nobility. "Oh come on, you've got to be kidding me... _Eat it_, you overstuffed swimming chicken..."

"Crowley, you cannot copyright guilt."

"First of all, it's Guilt-_Tripping_© and don't think you can weasel out of it, and second of all, you can't copyright a lot of things but that doesn't seem to have stopped anybody so far."

Aziraphale snorted (but in an intellectual way), tossing some crumbs to a duck that proceeded to gobble them up. Crowley snorted too (but in a jealous way, because what the hell made _Aziraphale's_bread so special?)*

Someone cleared his throat.

They turned to see a thin young man in a hat and coat with an upturned collar. He held Aziraphale's gaze, then said meaningfully**, "All elephants go north."

"Ummm... Swordfish?" the angel ventured.

"Sorry kid, no dice," Crowley said, raising his hands apologetically.

The man frowned at them skeptically, looking them up and down.

"Beware the green monkey...?" he tried again.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, "We're just here to feed the ducks."

"Ah!" the young man's face lit up in comprehension. "Can I borrow a match?"

"I use a lighter," Crowley grinned.

"That's better still."

"Especially for setting people on fire."

"What?"

"Now _shoo_." Crowley waved at the man dismissively, who gave them a suspicious glare and started walking away.

"Try the gentleman over by the tree!" Aziraphale called after him, because he couldn't resist trying to help. "Really now," he said softly to the demon.

Crowley smirked, tearing the bread up into tiny pieces and bombarding the ducks with them, who quacked much like most assaulted aristocrats. "I should tell you about the time I infiltrated the MI5, the MI6 and the Italian mafia all through a single conversation."

"Wasn't that when the stock market collapsed?"

"Uh. So anyway, what were we talking about?"

"It seems to have slipped my mind," the angel said tartly, who didn't like the idea of Crowley copyrighting guilt not one bit. "So how was your day, my dear?"

"Well, you know how it is. Sleeping, sleeping some more, then taking a break to nap, then some wiling and tempting. Also, I think Microsoft's about to release a new one, so that's that."

"What's Microsoft?"

"...Never mind."***

"Is that all?"

"Hm? Is what all?"

"Usually you go into more detail, my dear. I can't shake the feeling that you're hiding something."

"_Nah_, who, me?" Crowley grinned. He slapped the angel's shoulder. "Come on, let me drive you back."

"Really? Just like that, my dear?"

"What?" Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"Usually you attempt to do a bit more cajoling and egging me on for a night out," Aziraphale noted. "Even if we'd already gone out the day before."

The demon rolled his shoulders, looking away. "Yeah, well, I know that look you have when you're itching to get back to your books. Probably going to go over each and every one and replace the binding and retrace the ink, or something horrible like that. I probably couldn't stop you if I tried, and I've still got some work of my own to do, so..."

"Whatever you say, my dear," Aziraphale said patiently. He could have returned equally well that _he_knew the look the demon had when he was being evasive, but saw no reason to press the issue.

"Alright then," the demon grinned. "Let's see if we can find where we left the car."****

* * *

* Yes, yes, very funny. Get your mind out of the gutter, please.  
** And with just the hint of a Russian accent.  
*** Someday, Crowley planned to introduce Aziraphale to modern technology. The angel was a surprisingly vain creature, as evidenced by how, when poring over a book or manuscript, he would occasionally exclaim "Look, my dear, this one mentions us!" or "I do believe they meant you by that, dear boy!", which made Crowley suspect that "Googling yourself" would be a real hit. However, he'd only just managed to teach the angel to use a now nearly prototype-level, bulky mobile phone, and wanted to pace his victories.  
**** It was very rare for Crowley not to find where he had left the car. The people and pigeons and dogs and parking lot attendants that inhabit a city all form a sort of organism, in a manner of speaking, and organisms that stick around that long tend to have developed a sense of self-preservation.

* * *

The Bentley hummed pleasantly as they rolled through London at a leisurely pace. Aziraphale, his coat folded neatly on his lap (for mid-autumn, the weather had been surprisingly mild so far), stared out the window. The only thing disrupting the companionable silence was the Best of Queen blaring at moderate volume from the speakers*. Crowley hummed along.

Aziraphale's eyes widened as he spotted the tinsel and holly wreaths already hung up (quite prematurely, in his humble opinion) all over the stores. "That reminds me, dear," he said eagerly, "Have you already any plans for Christmas?"**

Crowley glanced at him and out the window distractedly. "What? Oh. Hah. Buggers starting early this year. Yeah, sure. I was thinking I'd pop in at the church and deck some halls, you know what I mean? Maybe chop down some trees and sell them, now that I think about it. Can never go wrong with a bit of mass environmental destruction."***

"There's no need to be nasty about it, my dear," Aziraphale pouted.

"Oh right, sorry, not in the holiday spirit, is it now? Shall I sing you a carol in apology?"

Aziraphale sighed. "I was thinking we could go to the circus. I can hardly remember the last time I've been."

"You're a walking circus all by yourself, angel."

"Really, now, I think that is a bit-"

Which was when the speakers interrupted them.

"..._Our lives dictated by tradition, superstition, false religion, through the eons, and on and on and on and on and on and on-on-o-o-o-on CROWLEY, ARE YOU THERE?"_

Crowley slammed on the breaks, clapped a hand over Aziraphale's mouth and draped the camelhair coat over his head in one sharp movement.

"Hello, lord," Crowley gulped, plastering on his best fake smile. You never knew when they'd get it into their heads to watch.

_"IT HAS BEEN A WHILE SINCE WE TALKED, CROWLEY."_

"Uh, yeah, I suppose it has..."

_"THE LAST FEW MONTHS HAVE NOT BEEN GOOD FOR YOU, CROWLEY."_

"No?"

_"THEY HAVE BEEN VERY, VERY BAD."_

"Um... in a... good way, hopefully?"  
_  
"NOT FOR YOU. WE HAVE BEEN HEARING SOME INTERESTING THINGS ABOUT YOU, CROWLEY."_

"Like... like what?" Crowley swallowed, shooting a quick sideways glance at Aziraphale. (The angel, still covered by his coat like furniture in a derelict house, and equally motionless, was unable to return his look.)

_"WHAT IS THIS WE HAVE HEARD ABOUT YOU AND KITTENS, CROWLEY?"_

Crowley blessed under his breath. Through gritted teeth, he said, "Couldn't imagine, boss."

_"YOU HAVE BEEN DISQUITENGLY KIND TO SMALL ANIMALS, CROWLEY."_

"I'm really not sure what you're talking about," Crowley said, very cautiously. "Isn't it in my job description to make people's lives miserable and pave the way for fellow servants of evil?"

_"WHAT ARE YOU GETTING AT, CROWLEY?"_

"What I'm getting at," Crowley began with the tentative tone of someone explaining new ideas to very old-fashioned people, "is that cats could practically be our poster boys. They've got style, they look down on humanity, they give humans parasites, and if they don't like the look of you they'll tear your frickin' face to shreds. And the best part is, they've got humans completely under their heel, I mean, have you _seen_the internet lately?"

_"THE WHAT?"_

Crowley sighed and rubbed his head.****

"Look, the point is, I was protecting the interests of Hell. So, you know. I don't really see the problem."

_"WHAT AN INTERESTING PERSPECTIVE."_

"Er... I suppose it is."

_"WE COMMEND YOU FOR YOUR INNOVATIVE IDEA, CROWLEY."_

"Um... Thanks?"

_"WE WOULD LIKE TO REWARD YOU, CROWLEY."_

"No, that's... that's okay, really."  
_  
"WE INSIST."_

"Uh, I mean it, I'm just happy to serve. Advancing the cause of evil. Yep."

_"IF YOU FEEL THAT WAY."_

"Oh yeah. Lord Beelzebub has never seen a soldier quite like me."

_"PLENTY, ACTUALLY._

"Uh, yeah, I was just-"

_"DON'T THINK WE'VE FORGOTTEN ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED IN EGYPT."_

"Ah."

_"GOODBYE, CROWLEY."_

"Bye, lord."  
_  
"WHAT WAS THAT, CROWLEY?"_

"Uh... Hail Satan..?"  
_  
"IINDEED, CROWLEY. __Oh yes we'll keep on trying hey tread that fine line yeah we'll keep on smiling yeah-"_

Crowley turned the speakers off.

For a moment they sat in silence.

An orchestra of honks sounded behind them. "Hey, moron, you can't park here!" someone shouted.

"Right," Crowley said, and hit the pedals again.

Beside him, Aziraphale slowly reached up to pull the coat off his face. He looked around at the streets rushing past them again, then at the demon. "Alright, my dear?"

"Peachy."

"It's just that you're speeding."

"I'm supposed to speed," Crowley scowled but slowed down just a bit. Aziraphale nodded in satisfaction, then peered out the back window. Behind them, the man who'd yelled at Crowley felt a sudden urge to rethink his life.

Crowley shot him a sideways look and smirked. "You know, I'm pretty sure that still counts as 'messing people about', angel."

"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh-huh."

"Crowley, dear?"

"Hmm?"

"What happened in Egypt?" the angel asked innocently.

Crowley glared at the road ahead. "Nothing you need to know about, angel. Come on, we're almost there."

"Of course."

A minute later, Aziraphale climbed out of the car. Crowley hesitated, then followed him. Aziraphale looked at the bookshop, as if worried that it had been assaulted by hooligans during his short absence. He turned to Crowley, who was leaning against the side of the Bentley, watching him. "Thank you for taking me out, dear boy, it has been quite diverting."

"Yeah, uh, sure. I'll see you in a bit, then, yeah? That okay?" He saw Aziraphale nod and turn to the door, fishing out his keys. "Try not to inhale too much of that dust in there!" he called after him, grinning.

"Do take it easy on the plants, my dear," Aziraphale huffed in response, and then he was gone.

Crowley stared at the display of the bookshop, then up and down the street. "Alright then," he said to himself, climbing back into the Bentley.

On his drive back through Soho he heard an odd rattling noise and slowed down beside a pair of dustbins in curiosity.

A striped grey cat leaped nimbly out of the lidless one and onto the roof of a low shed. Then it turned and looked at him critically.

For a moment, Crowley glowered back.

"Ssssoon," he hissed.

The cat hissed back.*****

_To be continued...  
_

* * *

* Well, insofar as Best of Queen can possibly be said to disrupt _anything_.  
** Aziraphale liked Christmas for much the same reasons a magpie did: It was bright, shiny and pretty with lots of interesting food and drink, and the worst of the Christmas shoppers itching for a rare gift from a real antique bookshop could be thwarted fairly easily by declaring it closed for the holidays starting sometime around Halloween. Plus, there was the whole 'birth of Jesus Christ' thing, even if the humans did get all the details and the timeline completely wrong. It was the thought that counted.  
*** Crowley disliked Christmas for much the same reasons an old grandpa would: it was bright, loud, shiny, filled with the laughter of children, and most of the traditions were either unavailable to a more-or-less unattached immortal or downright tedious after the 1000th or so short year in a row. That said, he did approve of it on a purely professional level.  
**** Most demons are, as Crowley quite correctly assumed, still stuck in the 14th century. On an unrelated note, most of the internet was created by humans. Let that sink in for a moment.  
***** Its meaning could be approximated as "your mother".


End file.
